Martagon
by SkippingThrough
Summary: War weighs heavily when it depends on a single person, as Lily can testify. SI/OC.
1. Chapter 1

Lily Evans was born a squalling, miraculous little bundle in the winter of 1960.

She lived in a little house, far away from the muddied waters of the river that bisected her industrial town. Her creaky little home was situated near a cloistered park with winding paths that lead to nowhere.

Lily spent most of her time outside, even through the smoggy stillness of Cokeworth weather. She liked the freedom of running outdoors and traipsing through puddles more than staying in the room she shared with Petunia.

The way her parents told it, Lily never got along very well with her sister. As a child, Lily's mum would let Petunia try to rock her to sleep when she was being a bit fussy.

Petunia always wrinkled up her nose whenever their parents brought up Petunia's attempts at holding her. Cradling Lily in her arms always set her off more than anything else. It got to the the point that Petunia wasn't allowed to hold Lily for more than a few minutes at a time, unless they wanted a house filled with the loud cries of a newborn, and more complaints from the neighbors.

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.

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You are not Lily. There is a name for people like you. There is a label for the type of person you are:

Liar. Parasite.

_Witch._

The magic at your fingertips is a revelation, and it is not a quiet one.

It goes a little something like this: Lily's mum asks someone to jog down and get the mail.

Petunia shoots her an imperious look from the other side of the room and says,

"Better do as mum says. I'm busy."

She flicks her eyes down to the nail varnish drying on her toes. Lily rolls her eyes and looks back down at her book. The dragons were just about to be defeated in the final battle and that's not something she wanted to be torn away from for even a moment.

"Girls!" Lily's mum's voice rings throughout the house with an obvious note of annoyance. Petunia deliberately flicks through another page of her magazine. Lily groans in defeat and ignores the victorious look Petunia sends her way.

She trundles out in summery shorts and a thin, strappy tank top that bares freckled shoulders to the world. The cool wind nips at her shoulders and she shivers.

Strangely, the mailbox is full to bursting. She hopes, naively, they're letters or coupons or maybe a package from Grandmum instead of bills. The bills always make mum and dad cross and cause their eyebrows to furrow and their eyes to tighten.

They're letters, she finds out. They fall in a heap at her feet as soon as she budges the mailbox open.

She grabs one, restlessly curious as always (there's a reason her pop calls her his little detective).

Lily collapses on the corner of Livingston Street and Breadworth Avenue.

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.

You wake up five minutes later and your mum - Lily's - _she_ is calling you back inside. There are new scrapes on your knees and your hands are bleeding sluggishly. You stand up, ignoring the pangs in your head. If feels like that time Lily startled Petunia when she was dancing around in your_their_ room and she'd kicked her in surprise.

Or maybe like someone had played target practice on your head with a couple of tennis balls. You stride unsteadily back home with the corners of your vision tinted black.

You aren't eleven anymore. You're twenty...something - thirty something, now. A _liar _and an adult.

The house you grew up in no longer feels like home. You see it for what it is, shingles on the rooftop falling slowly, bricks left out in backboard next to the tire swing that's grown rusty with the rainy weather and disuse.

Inside, your father - _not yours _\- is reading the paper and his crows feet and silver hair stand out more than ever. He's old, tired. He looks the way you feel and you stifle a sob.

The room you share with Petunia is too small, too stifled, you _can't. _She's focused on her magazine, blissfully. You kick the letters under the space below your bed, on your_Lily's_ side of the room. You're exhausted and terrified and you conceal your quiet, dry sobs into the bed covers.

You can feel Petunia's concerned gaze. She carefully grasps your shoulder and asks in a low voice,

"Are you alright? What's wrong with you? Lily?"

Your body trembles at the sound of that name passing her lips, of that second reminder of the life you stole. Lily doesn't exist anymore. You're nothing but a sub-par replacement for a bright little girl who is no longer alive.

The bookshelf on your - Lily's - side of the room creaks ominously and you hear the books tumble down on the ground in a heap.

Petunia gasps in surprise and you continue sobbing. You pass out a few minutes after hearing Petunia leave the room.

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You wake up bright and early the morning of the following day. Lily's mum greets you with a concerned look as she carefully settles onto the bed right next to you.

"I..." You falter at the sight of Lily's mother. You just stole her daughter's life. What do you have to say? What _right _do you have to even look her in the eye, let alone open you mouth and lie to her?

You choose the truth.

"I don't feel very good,"

_Coward._

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Lily's dad come in and lean against the door frame. Your_Lily's _mother turns her head toward her husband and he frowns worriedly.

In a show of perfect, nonverbal communication that your parents never quite managed to achieve - and doesn't _that _hurt to think about, how you'll never see your parents again - they decide you_Lily _weren't going to school today.

Lily's mum takes your temperature just in case.

She leans down, closer_closer_ and does that motherly thing where she puts your forehead to her lips. You flinch and after a moment she pulls away.

She believes you.

Later, when you are standing in the bathroom with your eyes screwed shut, counting down from fifteen - ten - then back to fifteen again because you're a _coward_ and you know the bright red wisps of hair that sway around you should never have been yours, you can understand why. Your haggard looking reflection stares back, utterly baffled and heartbroken.

You'd believe yourself, too.

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.

Lily's mum offers to stay home with you, but you know that we - _they_, the Evans, you aren't part of that family anymore,_ not really -_ are behind on bill payments and the landlord has come knocking a few times. This isn't the best home; the roof is leaky when it storms, you have to share a room with Petunia, the yard is overgrown and nobody has time to take care of it because Lily's parents are always working, but you need a room over your head.

You decline.

Eventually, Lily's mum leaves for work and Tuney - _Petunia, dammit. _You never earned the right to call her Tuney, you don't really know her - leaves for school with her.

She tells you she'll bring your schoolwork home for you.

"Last time you were sick, you cried because you missed lessons so you can thank me later," Petunia says this with her head poking out from behind the door frame. The rest of her body stays firmly parked outside of the threshold for fear of catching sick too.

You don't say anything, because you're pretending to be asleep.

You remember the rivalry you had with our brother, before. The nausea comes back; the way Petunia talks to Lily, a mixture of careless words that inspire eye rolls and annoyance and the fear in her voice when you came back sobbing, it's all too much. You bury your head into the pillow and consider smothering yourself with it.

When it feels as if everyone has truly left, you hop down from bed sluggishly and pull out the letters from yesterday. They are all addressed to the same person, in the exact same handwriting, down to the dip of the y in Lily's name and the extra space after Cokeworth.

You spare a moment for a bit of humour and think, _I really ought to check the mail more often,_ before choosing one from the pile and tearing it open violently, delighting in the way it rips apart in your hands.

It reads:

_Dear Miss Evans,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._

You skim through as much as you can before tears overtake your eyes and your vision becomes blurry. You feel like the rug has been pulled out from beneath your feet, set on fire, and then draped over you. You can feel yourself beginning to hyperventilate. The air you're breathing in is asphyxiating you and you feel yourself choking.

You dreamed of this, once upon a time. You joined the hype and read the books with your brother, gossiped about which house you'd belong to. In your daydreams, you'd grow up with magic. You'd get to leave behind your arguing parents, and the courtrooms, and arrive straight from your third foster home to the Hogwarts Express which would speed you out to a castle you dreamed of owning someday.

Now you know you can build it for yourself instead. Now you know you have this school, these lessons, and this magic.

Except...

Except you grew out of those daydreams years ago. Except you were Joanna Williams, part time mother to a limpet brother who looked at you like you'd hung the stars. Except you were finally figuring out your relationship with your parents.

Except you stole a little girl's life in the process, and you don't know if there's any way for you to take that back.


	2. Chapter 2

A week and a half into living someone else's life for them, you are still adjusting. Lily's memories, the iron-clad knowledge that she's gathered throughout her short lifetime is thumping its way through your head. Yesterday, you looked at a sock drawer for more than two seconds and remembered how you - _Lilyv - _had pushed Petunia into it in a fit of anger two years ago.

Besides superimposing your brother's face onto Petunia's whenever you saw her, things had been going well. You had calmed somewhat, and your parents dismissed the bookcase breaking at the time of your tantrum as a fluke.

You didn't bother to correct them.

Having magic was appealing, and that was what made it dangerous. You didn't trust people with that much power in their hands and that included yourself.

Unfortunately, you'd forgotten how little agency children had.

Two days ago, Lily's parents discovered the letters you had squirreled away beneath your_her_ bed and decided to drag you and an unwilling Petunia - "Mum, I don't want to deal with Lily's freaky magic stuff! Why can't you go without me?" - to take a trip to Diagon Alley, in London.

You would have protested, would have kicked and screamed and lied about the magic that has made itself at home in her life and her body, had made the silverware float up around your head and dye Lily's shirt a soft pink, like Joanna's_your _favorite sweater.

But Lily's parents looked so _relieved _that they finally had a name to put to _yourher _eccentricities. Their eyes lit up and the house was filled with exclamations of delighted surprise, of a knowing tilt to their smiles.

"Our little girl is magic! of course!" Lily's mum trilled, hugging a letter to her chest with a whimsical smile.

Her pop_ -_ Walton, you don't get to call him anything else - twirled you around the room in his arms.

Their excitement caught you off guard. How could they just believe this? Was a few letters really all it took?

Petunia had scowled at the distraught looks you were throwing her from the door frame of the living room.

"Don't be so thick, Lily. There was always something about you."

.

.

.

They plan a trip into London, and everything goes _perfectly_.

You stare out the window, wordless, throughout the entire journey. Staring out into the slate sky is easier than thinking about the impossibilities that you are about to witness, as well as the ones that you can create.

The power in this body scares you. What's more, the fact that you can't seem to control it is infinitely terrifying. The possibility of lashing out and hurting these people - Lily's _family_ _, _who you owe so much to, even if they may not know it, is heartbreaking in it's likelihood.

Lily's childish memories and the convictions that she's held onto all her life are hard to let go of. They continue to plague you restlessly and cut off your memories of your younger brothers' face. You smother your tears and the guilt.

_Now isn't the time._

Arriving in London is a mundanely breathtaking experience and the biggest relief of your life.

You, Petunia and Lily's parents manage to get to the muggle address in the letter. It takes you all another fifteen minutes of wandering back and forth along the street to enter any of the shops, because nobody but you can seem to see the rickety little pub settled right between a bright boutique and a homely looking bookstore.

Finally, you take pity on them and open one of the scuffed wooden doors. Petunia's eyes suddenly flick up to the black sign swinging in the breeze and you can see her eyes trace over the curl of the letters. _Leaky Cauldron. _

Lily's mum -_ Iris, _you had learned this days ago when she signed a teacher's note for you and reprimanded you for daydreaming in class - looks at the newly revealed pub in wonder. She and Lily's father wander inside and indiscreetly wonder aloud about the magical properties of the area.

You notice the bartender, who introduces himself as Tom with a gap-toothed grin, chatting with your parents knowingly. A few of the customers glance at your and the Evans' muggle attire but take no notice beyond that.

Petunia hangs back, then squeezes past you and moves to stand next to Walton. He idly puts his arm around the shoulders of her butter yellow sweater and she presses into him, shivering.

In contrast, you take off your windbreaker.

Finally, Tom escorts the Evans and you to another discrete entrance and taps a brick wall several times with his wand, a simple looking stick of wood a few inches shorter than his fore-arm.

Your head spins as the bricks disappear and you step into a world that shouldn't exist. This is the proof you needed to know that you aren't insane, nor are you dreaming.

You don't feel real. You've entered a parallel universe within a parallel universe.

_Inception,_ you think, dryly.

The whirls of flying broom and owls instead of machinery are uncomfortably familiar. But the weather is just as dreary and cloudy on the other side. In some ways, it's exactly like London. Like Cokesworth.

This grounds you.

It's a relief, to know that wizards can't change everything. That their reality isn't fully immersive, and that nature is still a force that is beyond their control. They may be powerful, but magic isn't might, and there are forces of nature even they don't dare touch.

You glance around at the petticoats and the robes that surround you. A pair of wizards nearby are greeting each other with a warm hug. There's a steady crowd of people all along the avenue, exiting and entering the various storefronts. Even a few families enjoying the parlous and restaurants.

_Just like London, _you think grimly, stepping forward like a soldier going to war.


	3. Chapter 3

You realize nothing is predictable in the wizarding world when you enter Flourish & Blotts. The store is much bigger from the inside than you expected upon entering to hunt down the rest of your school supplies.

You make many more observations as you and Lily's parents and Petunia hunt down your shopping supplies for the upcoming school year. The deeper you move into the depths of the store, the more you encounter dusty books and pamphlets that look untouched, as if they've been sitting on the shelves for centuries. None of them are covered in a single speck of dust. You've checked.

_Creepy. _

Throughout your hunt for supplies, there have been some tense moments. Your_Lily's_ parents chalk it up to the cultural disparity.

When your curiosity gets the best of you and you reach up to grab a book entitled _The Transformative Nature of Runes _another little hand beats you to it. A boy several years older than you stands next to a woman swathed in expensive looking fabrics with long hair wrapped up in a cap of feathers. The beading of the hat nearly trails down to the floor, swaying behind her in an invisible breeze.

The boy glances at your jeans, sees the knees caked in old mud stains and the fraying sleeves of your jumper, then moves away with a grimace.

It's as if you're trapped in a little bubble.

Petunia seems thankful for the personal space, but you can recognize that the tension in their shoulders comes from fear and disgust. It's not a good look on them. It's a bitter pill to swallow, so you let your suspicions sit in the back of your mind, unheeded.

Twice, you have encountered other muggle families. They are the ones that advise you to go here or there or, if they are as new to this half-remembered, dreamlike world as the Evans are, they commiserate.

Lily's pop grabbed a parchment sample and started a list. Petunia rolled her eyes - _Teenagers_, you think in fond derision, Jamie's blurry face popping into your head - and then turned to retrace her steps and find the wizarding magazine display.

"Dear, did you grab _The Standard Book of Spells_?" Your - Lily's - mum asks.

You grit your teeth at the thought. You're getting comfortable here. It's harder to turn away from Lily's memories and the knowledge she's held onto with childish conviction throughout her life, that this is her mum and this is her pop and this is Petunia and you are a family.

Knowledge that you were "reborn" with, that you crashed into having one August day. While useful, it's also difficult. You can't remember your parents' names, but maybe it's for the best, but your brother is fading along with those memories of family. The thought of losing his tenacity and developing independence leaves have you on edge.

You've woken up screaming the past three days, and everyone is getting tired of it. Most of all, you.

.

.

.

Eventually, you make your way to Madame Malkin's, alone. It's getting late and you have school tomorrow morning. Lily's parents agreed, hesitantly, to let you walk across the street and pick up a uniform while they searched for your cauldron and potions class supplies. Petunia looked like she wanted to crawl into a hole upon seeing the tank of three-eyed frogs in the shop window.

"I'll go with Lily," She had announced quickly.

"Perfect! We'll meet you both at Madame Malkin's after we're done."

Now, Madame Malkin asks you to step up and you give a full body twitch at the sight of the floating tape measure. You want to crawl away at the thought of that thing zipping around your head like a particularly vengeful mosquito, but endure as she slips a dark robe over your body and begins to pin it.

Someone else steps up next to you. You think it's Petunia, but then you remember she stayed at the front of the store to wander around, in awe at the racks of wizarding clothing on display.

"Hullo," A vaguely curious voice asks. "Hogwarts, too?"

It's a little boy with curling dark hair and grey eyes.

You blink and look away. If you open your mouth, you might scream in frustration._ This is...insane. This can't be happening._

Harry Potter, Lily's future son, your..nothing yet. Maybe never. He doesn't exist. He may never exist. He's not alive, you are, and you are here, talking to a boy, about your future, in the same clothing store, on the same platform, years before Harry Potter will or may ever exist.

_Cinematic parallels_, you think in grim amusement. Then,

_This is bullshit. My life isn't a movie._

"I'm not magical," You blurt in an attempt to dissuade. His eyes light up.

"Really?" He looks around and leans in to me. I lean away.

"What's it like?" He whispers, "I've always wondered,"

"It's..." You don't know how to answer. How do you describe the mundane to someone used to the fantastical? You settle on something vague.

"There's less objects flying at your face constantly. And less flying in general."

He nods his head like what you said makes perfect sense.

"All done, dear." Madame Malkin says, interrupting whatever the kid was about to say.

You hop off gratefully and beeline toward Petunia. The boy says something but you're too far away to hear him. _Oh well._

* * *

let's play: guess who that mysterious person was? (hint: they canon bby)


	4. Chapter 4

Summer is ending and the reality of what you will face soon is difficult to bury under memories of _before_. Life at Hogwarts will begin as the dreary Cokesworth weather is at it's chilliest.

You studiously ignore the spell books and trunk full of school supplies stored beneath Lily's bed, but that doesn't stop magic from encroaching on your doorstep. Literally.

"Lily! It's for you!"

Petunia's calls and you dutifully trot over to the door. You're doing overtime and making up for your first few weeks of inhabiting this body and this life, when you would barely lift your head whenever anyone called Lily's name. Now, even the softest whisper makes you look up in alarm, like a dog.

"What is it?"

You're expecting a package, maybe a delivery from Lily's grandmum, whom you had met three weeks prior for the first time, who Lily had seen for the nth time, because Lily and Petunia stay with her every summer for a few weeks at a time.

What greets you instead is a sallow, pale looking boy with dark hair. His clothes look raggedy and he can't quite meet Petunia's eye as she observes him quietly, but his lips have that familiar angry curl to them of people who've dealt with Petunia before.

He looks mangy, like the dogs that run around the streets without an owner. You used to look at their sagging skin, their dull eyes and feed them scraps. Now, you hope death finds them soon and turn back to the road ahead. Why prolong the inevitable, after all?

He gives you a small twist of his lips, almost a smile, and you can imagine the thin, high tenor of his voice before he says a word.

"Morning," He intones shyly. You guessed correctly.

The little boy in front of you, Severus Snape, sounds and looks exactly the same as he did a year ago, when Lily first met him. His hair just brushes his shoulders and there's a nasty shiner on his face, like someone mashed blueberries into his face, bruised vessels buried beneath his skin sprout on his cheekbone.

He can't quite look you in the eye, preferring to trace the bright, lion's mane curls of your hair like a game of connect the dots.

You were able to masquerade among Lily's friends easily, as long as you raised your voice to a high enough pitch. Indulging them during recess and then splitting off for lunch to hide in the library was simple.

This boy? You pity him, sure. He's small and quiet and alone. He's shaking in the cold and can't even look Lily, his peer and possibly his only friend, in the eye.

But you aren't Lily. You don't know what to do with him for extended periods of time. You don't have even a fraction of Lily's warmth and charisma. if Lily was the sun, you are the moon during a solar eclipse.

Overshadowing, choking the brightness and leeching away her ability and willingness to give, to sustain life, and to love.

He's still shaking in the summer cold, face wavering between uncertainty and rejection. Petunia is looking at you impatiently; she's waiting for you to make a decision.

"Come inside."

He balks a little and you take his cold little hand. The other one is clutching a familiar letter and you can't believe you didn't notice it before. You lead him to your room and try to ignore the clench in your chest as he looks around at your house in wonder. His hair stays lank as Snape swivels his head back and forth.

You gesture for him to follow you into the bedroom before kneeling to pull a simple looking wooden trunk from beneath your bed. Touching it makes the tips of your fingers go numb. This item is imbued with magic, it is of wizarding make and it is threaded with spells. It's also covered in a thin layer of dust.

"You picked them up?" Snape asks.

I know exactly what he's referring to without having to ask. The disappointment that laces his words stings more than I expected it to.

"I did. We all took a trip to London and went to Diagon Alley. It - it was," You stutter, trying to make conversation. "It was wonderful."

_Is that what he wants to hear?_

He nods and looks beseechingly at me. His eyes are wide and earnest.

I nod back and he picks up a book. Snape sits cross legged on the floor of your bedroom and begins to leaf through it carefully; he touches the pages, brand new and unmarked, delicately, like they will drift apart if he chooses to be any less gentle.

You listen to the steady sounds of his breathing and try to think of something else to say too fill up the silence. Everything that comes to mind is nothing like you or Lily, or even the hellish amalgamation of both of your characters that you are steadily becoming.

You stay silent and look over Snape's shoulder as he reads through your textbooks. He tilts the book in your direction and you accept the nonverbal offer.

_For now, this is enough. it has to be. _

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Summer comes and goes. Your first day of Hogwarts is nerve wracking and everything and nothing like you thought it would be.

You hug Lily's family goodbye and even Petunia deems it in her to give you a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears and you don't think they're there for the same reason as your mother's.

A week before you were set to leave, you heard Petunia arguing in the kitchen with Lily's parents.

_"Why can't I go with Lily? Why does she get to be the only one who's special?" Petunia argued._

_You could imagine the outraged look in her eyes. Her hair, usually so neatly tucked away beneath a headband would be messy with strands out of place. She had a habit of tugging at her ponytails and braids whenever she was irritated or angry._

_"Dear, it's a complicated situation. I know it seems unfair that Lily is going away..." Walton's began in an attempt to pacify her._

_I'll trade you, you had though uncharitably._

_Then, you shut the bathroom door with a quiet creak and decided you needed a shower. The fact that the water served to shield you from the argument going on a few rooms away was entirely coincidental._

You squeeze her extra hard in a silent apology.

Then you turn your back on your last few connections to the mundane, non-magical world and the remains of your sanity. The brick wall bends to your will as you step through it.

_._

_._

_._

The first train ride is spent in almost total silence with Snape. You open the door to a compartment you hoped was empty and find the next best thing. Snape catches your eye and brighten once he processes who it is he's seeing. You hesitate for a moment before deciding that it really can't hurt to sit down across from him.

It's...companionable. You might just learn to like this kid.

A raucous group of boys enters the compartment and you hear the tail end of someone's comment as the door opens.

"-though you seemed alright!"

You duck your head down and consider the benefits of moving. The boys - two of them, from the sounds of their footsteps - sit down somewhere in the compartment. You share a look with Snape and decide to ignore the both of them. Your attention turns to one of your coursebooks as the compartment door opens again.

Two more boys enter. Though they are more timid. She hears a series of introductions begin and filters out their words until -

"Who are those two?" One of them asks.

"Dunno. They wouldn't even look at us when we came in," One of the others mutters.

"We should introduce ourselves and ask if they'd like to join."

"Hold on, mate. Let me go first."

The boldest of the group approaches. She can see Snape look down at the book in his lap even more intensely and strain to avoid making eye contact.

In contrast, you lift her book even closer to eye level in an attempt to block out your face. Lily's skinny arms shake under the weight of the thick textbook.

_Really mature, _you can hear Petunia comment in your head.

The boy is not deterred.

"Uh, hello? Blimey, can you hear me though that thick brick of a book you're holding?"

A hand reaches out and tugs the book away from you. The face that greets you is familiar. His curly hair and grey eyes bore into yours. His sharp grin is even more familiar and there is a sinking feeling in your chest.

"Hey, it's you!" The boy from Madame Malkin's says in surprise. He catches your eyes and you maintain eye contact. He gives you an uncertain grin as you say nothing for a prolonged period of time.

"I'm Sirius Black. And you are?"

You restrain your gasp and send a fervent thank you for your poker-face.

"Hey, are you gonna respond anytime soon, mate?" He says crossing his arms. He gives your book another meaningful look and you understand that, in the depths of his preteen pique, he is willing to keep it away from you to get what he wants.

"Leave her alone." Snape interjects across from you and you feel a profound sense of relief right before being flooded with shame. You shouldn't _need _a _child _to come to your rescue.

"She clearly doesn't want to talk to you." His features are twisted into an angry glower, which you are now able to differentiate between the apathetic glower and gloom that makes up his resting expression.

"I wasn't talking to you." The boy - Black - says, irritation painted across his face. He glowers back and Snape and puffs up his chest threateningly.

"Who-" He begins, only to be stopped by another boy with scars across his face and sandy hair.

"Stop, stop. It's not worth it. You don't want to get in trouble on your first day, right?" He says, eyes darting between Snape and Black.

Black glances at both of us and deflates. He mutters something disparaging in Snape's direction and, with a disappointed look in yours, heads back to his seat.

You give Snape - no, _Severus, _because you owe that him after defending you - a thankful look. Then you pick up your book and bury the guilty feelings beneath Latin roots.

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.

.

Eventually, the train ride ends and you're shuttled into the dining hall and too busy gazing in awe at the starry sky above you to notice the nerves of all of Lily's peers. Mcgonagoll shuffles you all into a semblance of order, and eventually begins calling out names. You tune it all out until she shouts,

"Black, Sirius!"

He struts up to the hat and gives the hall a grin before his eyes and half of his face disappear beneath the rim. The din in the room rises as the hat deliberates. Students are chatting quietly, whispering between themselves and catching up on summer gossip. A small group of Hufflepuff boys at the far end of the table are tossing something between themselves.

"Gryffindor!" The Sorting Hat shouts.

You hear several Slytherins shout "What?" and another few open their mouths and don't close them in their shock. The Gryffindor table gets a little quieter as the Slytherins get a bit louder in their shock.

A boy to your right, brown-eyed with dark skin, whispers to another:

"Merlin, can you believe it? A Black among the Gryffs?"

You see Black remove the hat and focus on his house with a singular intensity. He doesn't look at any of the Slytherins as he walks smoothly down to find a place between the Gryffindors.

A few more sortings pass. Black is sitting at the far table now and his tie is now a proud line of red and gold looped around his neck. He gives you a smile and you look away.

He doesn't know Lily. And he certainly doesn't know you.

.

.

.

Mcgonagall calls you up.

The hat calls you a Gryffindor despite your chants of _notGryffindor _and you want to cry. You want to throw it onto the ground and stomp on it - is that the Gryffindor recklessness it was referring to?

You follow Black's lead and don't turn to the Slytherin table, which you know will soon become Snape's new home.

You bite down on your lip and walk quickly to the Gryffindor table. The only spot left is between Black and another little boy who looks like he stuck is head into a washing machine during the middle of its spin cycle. You vaguely remember him as one of the boys that shared your train compartment.

He and Black are chatting idly and your heart sinks for the nth time that day as Black gives you a cheeky hello.

"Nice to finally learn your name, _Evans_."

Meanwhile, James Potter gives you an amused glance and his eyes brighten when they land on yours.

_Fuck._

You give both boys a half-hearted smile and then turn to face the sorting.

If you keep your head down...well, it's worth a shot.

* * *

here a small canon change, there a small canon change. Joanna skeedaddles at the thought of sitting with 2 loudmouths and 2 unknowns and chooses to radiate do-not-approach vibes with Snape because at least she can trust him to keep quiet and not question her weirdness. the boys DO NOT ignore her bc they are obnoxious adolescents and Snape still becomes a Hated Figure in their eyes

also surprise! the boy she met last chapter was sirius black. someone guessed it right.


	5. Chapter 5

There's labels for the type of person you are.

Know-it-all. Teacher's pet. Smart Alec.

_Mudblood._

(Nobody promised you they were kind ones)

You roll the slur around in your mouth and taste the bitterness on your tongue. It seeps down your throat like the chamomile and lemon tea Lily's grandmother offered Petunia and Lily with every visit to her small apartment complex in the suburban neighborhoods several hours out from London.

But there's no time to sit and ruminate on it in silence.

The past two weeks, you have spent most of your energy on avoiding the curious looks that others give you, the girl with loud hair and a quiet voice. Instead, you take in the magic that now controls your day to day life.

You may have apprehended this body, but the raw magic that shifts at your command and moves to follow your whims isn't _really _yours to command. There is a pounding, palpitating fear that starts in the pit of your stomach and moves to the back of your throat any time you must demonstrate your wizarding abilities. It tastes acrid and acidic, tangy iron and bile drip onto your tongue.

_Danger. Danger. _The words blare in your head like a new mantra.

_This power isn't yours. You don't deserve to command it, _an insidious voice whispers in the back of your mind. _And you will _never_ be able to master it, _the voice continues.

You shake your head clear of the doubts that crawl around in the corners of your mind and weave cobwebs of fear, entrapping your thoughts in the process. Page 12 of the textbook flashes through your head. The diagrams were clear and the illustrated movements precise and fluid to a fault.

"Wingardium Leviosa!"

Your enunciation is also clear. Distinct. And your voice echoes throughout the classroom, quiet but hard as iron. Your arm moves in a textbook-perfect maneuver. _Swish and flick._

The feather on your desk flutters and continues on its path upward. It reaches the ceiling and you lower your wand. The feather falls.

Professor Flitwick gasps in delight.

"That was splendid Miss Evans! Five points to Gryffindor! Take note, students!"

There's another part of you, something you buried long ago in your first life along with an old toy chest and a pair of childish dreams, that longs for the chance to let loose. A chance to marvel at the power at your fingertips and feel the same childish whimsy of your_Lily's _peers as they take in their own abilities. To discover your limits and play around and laugh with the rest of your classmates as they mispronounce their Latin and flick-and-swish instead of swishing-and-flicking.

The first day of class, Professor Flitwick had stood precariously on one of his numerous piles of books and, projecting his voice, said:

"Students, I ask you not be afraid of failure. Embrace it!"

But you are still wary of your own powers and the magic that surrounds you, so you choose perfection. After all, the last thing you need is any more attention.

Of course it backfires.

.

.

.

"Hey there, Evans!"

A voice jerks you out of your hypnosis.

A child (_You're a child too, now, remember?_) plunks herself down on the empty seat across from you and cautiously slides your books out of the way. The bangs of her hair flop into her eyes at the movement and she blows them out of her face with a disgruntled look.

Alice Prewett stares at you again, guileless eyes crinkled in the corners, and a wide smile pulling at the edges of her face.

"I've been working on the assignment Professor Mcgonagall gave us yesterday, except I'm a little lost on this part right here."

Here, she whips out a piece of parchment and drops it between you two. She gestures to her paper meaningfully and you lean in. Skimming, it looks like she has a solidly constructed six inches on Gamp's Law of Elemental transfiguration. Then your eyes trail down lower. Three inches of parchment are scribbled out, covered in ink blots, and a suspicious watery stain that may have once been a teardrop.

Prewett continues.

"So, I figured since your always lurking around in the library I could ask you to help recommend me a few books on the subject! Or better yet, if you have the chance I'd love it if you could read over it for me. I know it's a lot to ask, only, you always get such high marks. Highest in the class, even!"

She smiles sweetly, lips peeling back to show her bright teeth and you've put the pieces together and are already shaking your head.

"I'm sorry, but I don't have the time to help you out and keep up with my coursework."

Prewett leans back in her chair confidently.

"I think you're lying," She says and you grit your teeth.

_She's eleven, _you remind yourself. _All eleven year olds feel entitled and invincible, especially if they're learning magic._

"I'm not." You stand up and leave the table, and Prewett, behind.

Her eyes follow your exit, but then you see her pull your abandoned book closer and start writing.

_There you go,_ you think uncharitably. _You didn't really need me at all._

.

.

.

The confrontation with Prewett leads you to confirm that any kind of attention is bad, but you come to find that some types are worse than others.

There is a boy (_there is always a boy_) who sits two rows ahead of you in Transfiguration. His freshly pressed robes and squeaky, polished shoes always glint in the torchlight.

He whispers_ that word_ to you between classes and trips to the infirmary with satisfaction creasing the edges of his face.

You want to punch him. You want to do a lot of things, but he looks like old money, even if he acts classless. And the consequences that you would incur come with a price tag you can't afford to pay.

"What's his name?"

You ask Potter one day, jerking your head forward at the dark-haired boy with the jewel-toned tie in Ravenclaw colors looped around his neck.

Potter, somehow, by the grace of God and your terrible luck alone, managed to end up sitting next to you in Transfiguration.

He's not a _bad _partner, per say. Mcgonagall keeps a strict eye on her students and even though Potter has already shown a propensity for cracking jokes and making mischief, he knows better than to be careless in her classroom.

He side-eyes you, which is unsurprising as you rarely converse more than necessary. You don't talk at all, beyond trading instructions in terse words.

Within days, he seemed to grow used to your silence, choosing instead to lean over and whisper jokes to people like Black and Pettigrew. Sometimes, he still manages to get past your cold demeanor and whispers observations in your ear that make you stifle a smile.

"That's Amycus Carrow. He's a right prick, though." Potter mutters, glancing at the boy over the frames of his glasses.

You hum in agreement. You might know this better than anyone.

"Why do you ask?" Curiosity gets the better of him. You don't answer, but Potter is also used to this sudden, sullen silence from you. He turns his head to whisper something to Lupin as you continue staring at Carrow.

He looks up from his needle and you lock eyes. He sneers and you hear the word _mudblood_ echoes through your head.

You look away first.

This is your Hogwarts experience two weeks into your first year. Then it gets worse.

* * *

thoughts?


	6. Chapter 6

You wake up and unceremoniously stumble down to the common room with a certainty that it is far too dark and far too early for you to be awake. A mumbled_ Tempus_ proves that you are correct.

3:30 AM should be a time of rest for everyone, excluding Peeves and the rest of the Hogwarts ghosts. Even the Quidditch players who stumble out onto the pitch, sleepy-eyed, don't get up until 5AM.

But tonight you woke up on a sweat-soaked pillow, clutching your hands to your shredded sheets. Somewhere in the back of your head lies a memory of a snippet of a dream about deadly green fairy lights, and your brother's blurry face and pleading eyes.

The erratic nightmares come and go, but they've petered out since you arrived at Hogwarts.

You attributed it to the castle's innate magic and your exhaustion at the end of every day lulling you into a dreamless sleep, but it looks like your respite is over.

Now, the never-ending fire looks like its drooping from exhaustion, though it crackles as you enter. Drooping shadows loom over the cozy armchairs and the room is too large with only you to occupy it.

It feels like you need to shout or make yourself bigger, somehow. There's too much empty space, and you realize with a start that you've grown used to sharing your space, if not your feelings.

Privacy is hard to come by in a small, ramshackle house in Cokeworth and harder still in an ancient castle turned magic school.

You grab an errant stack of parchment and begin a letter with a set of vague intentions in mind.

_Dear Petunia, _you write except the curl of your P looks like it could be a J in the flickering light of the fire. Jamie's blurry face appears in your vision and you hurl the parchment into the fire and watch the edges slowly blacken and curl into the shape of a contemptuous frown.

You watch the parchment blacken to ash in silence.

Magic in your everyday existence, uncontrollable and unstable as it all is, continues to scare you. It has too much potential to be weaponized and it's entirely unpredictable.

You still expect Lily's magic to rebel whenever you perform any sort of spell instead of smoothly arcing through your wand (_yours, not Lily's, as much as the combination of Yew and Phoenix feather, 12.5" had startled you when it had unchained the lights in Ollivander's shop_).

There's nothing to do but grin and bear it.

Or, in your case, keep the same apathetic look on your face. But it's hard to block out the memory of your brother's face and any homesickness that follows. Magic may terrify you, bring your body to shake and something deep in your bones to tremble in protest at the disregard of the laws of nature, but so does inaction.

_Time to hit the books again._

This time, you'll be looking for something a little more elusive than an answer to an essay question.

.

.

.

Of course the library doesn't have what you're looking for. You've scoured the shelves for anything relating to translocation, to time travel, to dimension hopping - whichever, on any given day, feels closest to waking up and falling into the life of a little girl who shouldn't exist.

By now, you've read all of the _Apparition 101_ and _How to Apparate for Dummies_ manuals. You're still trying to get through Transfiguration textbooks with references to vanishing objects, but the words are wearing you down. There's too much material and not enough of it is what you're looking for.

Right now, you're in the middle of a despairingly dry tome called _Theories of Transubstantial Transfiguration. _It's advanced Transfiguration that requires prior knowledge of obscure mid-18th century theories for background.

It's also what convinces you to finally ask a professor for help.

You wait anxiously until the middle of transfiguration class. Keeping your mouth shut throughout the lesson is easy, because you never speak in class anyway.

When Professor Mcgonagall announces it's time to practice transforming your matchstick into a simple needle, you rush through the task. The needle on your desk ends up with a blunted edge, but's its usable. Potter is working hard to distract Lupin from his own task.

"Professor?" You call out uncertainly.

"Yes, Miss Evans?" Potter and some of the students around you quiet a little at the sound of your voice. You never speak in class if you can help it.

Marlene McKinnon shares a confused look with her sister and leans in to whisper something in her ear. Marlene's dark red hair blends into her twin's as they shuffle closer in their shared confusion. Their matchsticks are a sharp grey color with a little glint to the metal.

"Where do objects go when they are vanished?" Professor Mcgonagall raises her eyebrows in surprise. "You've been reading ahead, Miss Evans. That's fifth year material."

You shrug, bashful and very aware of the attention you're suddenly getting.

Potter snorts.

"It's Evans, Professor. She probably knows the seventh year curriculum inside out too."

"Don't speak out of turn, Mr. Potter. I'm afraid you just cost Gryffindor the points I was going to reward Miss Evans."

Potter gawps and then shuts his mouth, looking contrite.

"Nice going, idiot." McKinnon grouses. Both McKinnon sisters have known Potter since they were children, so his class clown act goes underappreciated.

"To answer your question Miss Evans, into non-being, which is to say, everything." Mcgonagall then turns her attention toward a smoking matchstick.

You bite your tongue and nod, acting for all the world like what she said makes any kind of sense to you.

_Back to the library, I guess. _

.

.

.

"Why are you doing this again?"

"You know I like to be prepared."

Severus raises an eyebrow sardonically. You have to hand it to him, his face at its most base form is sallow enough to convincingly pull off the _You're-bullshitting-me_ look. His eyebrows remain upright and unconvinced and his eyes say _Try again._

Being away from Cokeworth has been good for him. You usually only see Severus in passing, during meals or in your Slughorn's potions class. During mealtimes, he sits with a few of the Slytherin boys his age - Rookwood excluded, thankfully.

He's blossomed, as much as one can say that word in reference to Severus Snape and mean it. He engages with them rather than ignoring their chatter. Here you were afraid you would have to shove him into social situations with a cattle prod like you once did with Jamie.

Now you're considered the quiet one.

"It's a personal project."

He hums non-judgmentally and closes his book before gazing around your shared table. The daunting piles of books surrounding you both are not unimpressive. Less than half have been flipped through or thoroughly peered at by you or Severus.

This is his second time helping you in your search. Just yesterday, he surprised you in the library and insisted on sitting with you as you researched. Eventually, you got tired of his dark eyes boring into you, so you offered him a list of promising titles. He had sighed and dragged them over with little protest.

You had the sneaking suspicion that you had just encouraged him, somehow, in the creation of a new habit. That suspicion proved true when he joined you in the library again today.

Now, your parchment is covered in your messy scrawl _(Writing with quills is difficult on a good day, I'm working on it,_ you justify). Every lead and reference to another text that may prove of interest to you is written on this sheet.

Unfortunately, no single, comprehensive guides on dimensional travel seem to exist for you to consult.

You've only gone through a quarter of the library, but your hopes aren't very high. Then again...

_Restricted section, huh? Now that's a thought. __Desperate times do call for desperate measures._

* * *

fun fact: tempus is a fanon thing. eh. (the book about transfiguration is not)

i thought about giving joanna lily's wand but...this was too good of an opportunity to pass up. hello, foreshadowing.


	7. Chapter 7

In an alternate universe, Professor Slughorn would look at you like you hung the moon, the stars, and found the time to craft a few comets. You're quiet and diligent; a good listener by virtue of tuning out everything he says and nodding appropriately.

NEWT level Potions students coined, tempered, and perfected this technique, according to Severus. The art of ignorance, Slughorn edition.

Only they add commentary that elevates his ego. You choose to stay quiet and try to keep a yawn locked behind clenched teeth.

The potions you create are also always perfect, especially when in partnership with Severus, whose prodigious talent has him coasting through every assignment.

Slughorn would swear up and down that you two are some of the most talented students he's had in decades, except Severus is too sallow and too bitter a pill for him to swallow.

And you? You're silent as a corpse.

You could dispel the shadow of Tom Riddle that holds Slughorn hostage, if you made an effort. You can see a future unfold where Slughorn's stories feature a brilliant red-head with a core of steel and fiery heart, instead of a charming, unnamed boy-genius.

Lily certainly would have caught his attention, had she been alive _(Bright hair and a mind to match; a justice seeker and peace-keeper; too bad her fire burnt out early). _He would have wanted to polish her and stick her on a shelf with the rest of his collection.

You just don't care enough about him or his ego to bother. Let Riddle's specter haunt him, scourge his head and snag in his brain, slowly coalescing into a tumor.

_Why should I be the only one to suffer?_ _I'm haunted too._

You picture Riddle in the green light behind your eyelids (_yourpastyourfutureyour-)._ It's the same blurry image that appeared when you passed through the trophy room, seeking out his plaque. Your eyes had lingered on its dull shine.

If Riddle is a noose, twisting around your neck and cutting off your breath, Jamie is the chair that's being pulled out from beneath your feet. His memory is unstable, unsteady, unreliable.

Your past is running away from you as Lily's future draws nearer. You know, very clearly, why you're fighting so hard to get out of here.

.

.

.

Severus had approached you during the first potions lesson, ignoring the invisible divide created that kept the Slytherins and Gryffindors apart, except to mock one another, like a one-way mirror.

He had wasted no time taking out his dinged up pewter cauldron as you tried not to compare it to yours.

His cauldron looked, if not second-hand, than maybe like a relic from his mother's time at Hogwarts. The one Lily's parents bought you is still shiny from whichever anti-dust charms were applied to it during production.

The boys he'd usually sit next to during mealtimes had looked at him askance, but nobody dared to approach either of you. Not even the Gryffindors, for all their vaunted bravery, made so much as a token protest once Slughorn took roll call and began his lecture.

You've got a sneaking suspicion that Severus caught hell for his actions later, but your own carefully cultivated image of apathy and quiet studiousness stood up to the test, as none of the Gryffindors questioned you on your actions.

Here, your invisibility was a boon.

Your textbooks taught you that brewing potions is a lot like cooking, only with slightly more explosions. Luck is in your favor, because mitigating disaster is easy when its concentrated inside of a single cauldron.

It's your peers that you have to watch out for.

The second time Potter yells "Duck!" during a lesson, you muffle a groan and share an annoyed look with Severus. Slughorn gruffly moves to stand next to Potter and his partner in crime, Black.

"Now, gentlemen," Even Slughorn's usually placid, cheerful demeanor is on its last legs. He is about to begin his lecture when the fire at the boys' table flares.

"Aguamenti!" Slughorn shouts, wand in hand. His reflexes are surprising considering his age and not-inconsiderable girth.

The smell of smoke fills the classroom and Slughorn evacuates you all outside.

"Guess they weren't lying this time." A Slytherin girl with wiry, dark curls comments wryly.

_The boy who cried wolf, _you think, _was eaten_ _the third time._

You cut the thought off like you're chopping a rose at the roots. He's a child and he doesn't deserve to be at the business end of either your wand or your attitude. You shudder at the thought of repeating Tom Riddle's legacy in any capacity.

You've already spent too much of your time worrying about Riddle's exploits, past an future alike. Before entering Hogwarts, you considered using him as a template. Riddle had, after all, gained access to the Restricted Section as a teenager, though it took him years of charm and good behavior to get there.

You aren't sure if you have the patience to prey on Slughorn's ego for that long and you're only eleven. It took Riddle years of honeyed charm and good behavior. You can't hope to live up to that. And what's the likelihood that he'll repeat the same mistake?

Nobody in this castle, no matter how prideful or egocentric, is willing to give an eleven yer old access to the Restricted Section. Not unless they want to be responsible for a child being eaten alive or otherwise grievously injured and killed.

Somehow, you don't think telling the Headmaster that you're really an adult masquerading as a child will help the situation.

For now, you'll keep reading and going through the leads you do have. But information in the Wizarding World is a limited commodity.

So you keep your eyes open and look for options. When opportunity knocks, you can't afford not to answer.

.

.

.

As it turns out, opportunity doesn't knock so much as it pounces on you.

Everyone knows Sirius Black in some capacity. It doesn't matter how - whether you're crushing on him and have been fawning over his silky hair, or whether you sneer at him from across the corridor, another blood traitor to erase from the Black family tapestry.

You know him differently. You can't claim a personal acquaintanceship, thank god, but you know a little (_too much, _the part of your brain with survival instincts whispers) about the boy he is and you remember the man he will be.

Unfortunately, he's a long way from what he'll become.

That's alright. Personal journeys take a while. You would know.

Your foreknowledge doesn't save you from clashing. The first meeting between you two, while accidental, was less than fortuitous. As it turns out, it does predict your relationship down the line.

"Evans!" Black crows, pleased as punch to see you.

You're not in the library as per usual and the unconventional location, an unused classroom tucked away from one of the main staircases, is an unusual change of scenery for you.

"Black. What are you doing here?"

His smile dims, but he recovers quickly. The resilience of children in the face of apathy really is astounding.

"I'm just trying to find my best mate. You know, crazy hair, glasses, plans to be the first first year on the Quidditch team?" He says, evasively.

He's lying through his teeth, clearly. But you came here for the quiet, not the conversation.

_Let him keep his secrets._

"Ok."

You looks back down at your book and pray he takes his queue to leave. He doesn't.

"What are you up to?"

He grabs the book out from your hands. You're starting to wonder if this is becoming a habit, but don't bother to answer. The unimpressed look in your eyes says it all: _What do you think I'm doing with a book?_

"Aw, come on, Evans. Lighten up. Not everything is life or death you know."

You're about to respond when the doorknob of the classroom begins jiggling and Black gasps. Filch bursts into the room, Mrs. Norris winding angrily around his feet.

"You! I'm going to have you hung upside down in my office! I'll have your head on my display case for this," He gestures toward the thick layer of fuzzy moss on his arms, a bright neon orange color that contrasts against his angry pink blush.

Black is beginning to look panicked. You wish you were more charming, even though you know where charm leads people (_green light flashes behind your eyelids_). Still, yo know what you have to do.

"Mr. Filch, he's been with me this entire time."

Filch looks upset that you interrupted his tirade, but Black jumps on the opportunity you've given him.

"I have, really! Evans has been tutoring me for Potions. I'm shite in that class," he begins spinning a yarn with the desperation of liars the world-over.

_Clang._ A sound chimes from the floor above. It sounds like someone dropped a suit of armour on the floor from a tall height.

"Peeves," Black and Filch say at the same time, in very different tones.

"Mark my words, I'll catch you one day."

Filch sweeps out of the classroom dramatically and Black collapses against a desk. He lets out a shaky sigh, but his bright eyes and the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betray his relief.

"Thanks for covering for me, Evans. I'm off to find the rest of my mates,"

"You owe me now."

Black barks out a bitter laugh. He rubs his chin absently with one hand.

"Are you sure you aren't secretly a Slytherin?"

The corners of your mouth curl up into a slow smile. Black gawks. You're pretty sure he's never seen your face in anything but its usual placid mask. His eyes follow the curl of your lips like they're rattlesnakes uncurling after a long rest.

"Fine, it's a deal," His hands are covered in a suspicious layer of a fine, gritty grey powder. You reach out to shake his hand and seal the deal. Your fingers barely brush his before he snatches it away.

His eyes are still bright and full of mischief. You're pretty sure this is his default face.

"Tell me what you want first."

The problem is, you don't _know_ what you want. You saved Black from getting into trouble on a whim, because having a pure-blood owe you a favor is useful. A half-formed thought comes out of your mouth.

"I - I need access to any books you may have."

Black quirks an eyebrow at you in confusion.

"We bought the same set of first year text-books. Hell, I'm pretty sure you brought more books to Hogwarts than I did."

"I meant books that you have at home. The ones in your personal library."

"What? No way," he gives a short bark of laughter. "Why would I?"

"I just saved you from Filch."

"And if you go back and tell him you lied to help me, you'll get in trouble too."

You resist the urge to groan. Congratulations, you're at an impasse with an eleven-year-old boy. You thought you were better than this.

Black looks at you for a moment, considering. Then he sticks his hand out again.

"Fine, but I get final say over which books you can borrow. If you want something ridiculous, my mother will get suspicious. Also, you have to agree to meet me here every Thursday after dinner."

Suddenly, you feel a lot more unsure. Black looks like he's plotting something.

"Why?"

"I just told Filch you were tutoring me. What do you think'll happen if he knows I lied?"

He makes a good point.

"Fine, it's a deal," You mirror his previous words and shake his hand. This time, he lets you. His hands are smooth with neatly filed nails. They are covered in a suspicious layer of a fine, gritty grey powder.

Now you're implicated in this thing too, whatever it is. You guess it was only a matter of time.

* * *

this update was frustrating to write. i might edit it later.

also wow what an unreliable narrator "nobody notices me and im invisible" (except rookwood. black. prewett.) "seriously, nobody notices me."

lol what a dummy


End file.
